But for his anger this morning, he would hardly have been so free in answering Doctor Carey’s query. Carey was a living rebuke to him, and no man loves that force anywhere.
“I tell you, I’m in a devil of a fix,” he repeated.
“Well, be wise and go to a doctor in time,” Doctor Carey said, only half in jest. “Champers, we haven’t always worked together out here, but I guess we know each other pretty well. I’m willing to trust you. Are you afraid to trust me?”
Darley Champers leaned back in his office chair and stared at the questioner.
Horace Carey’s heavy hair was very white now, although he was hardly fifty-five years old. The decades of consecrated service to his profession had told only in this one feature. His face was the face of a vigorous man, and something in his life, maybe the meaning of giving up and the meaning of the service, he once told Jim Shirley, he had known, had left upon his countenance their mark of strength. As Darley Champers looked at this face, he realized, as he had never done before, the freedom and joy of an unsullied reputation and honest dealing.
“Lord, no, I’d trust you in hell, Doc,” he exclaimed bluntly.
“I won’t put it to the proof,” the doctor assured him. “Nor will I trouble you nor myself with any matter not 265 concerning us two. Tell me frankly all the trouble about this sale.”
Briefly, Champers explained Smith’s hatred of Jim Shirley, and his anger at the present sale.
“All I ask is that you will not break your word to Miss Shirley,” Horace Carey said. “I happen to know that the money will be ready for you. This Smith is the same man who came to old Carey’s Crossing years ago, of course?”
“Why, do you remember him?” Darley Champers asked in surprise.